Great. Stranded in the middle of nowhere with a gorgeous, antlered stranger who may or may not be entirely stable. Or human.
I test my limbs carefully under the furs. No frostbite, surprisingly. My fingers and toes all respond with normal sensation. My clothes are the only practical option for getting out of this bed without putting on a show, but they're still drying.
"I need to..." I gesture vaguely toward a door I assume leads to a bathroom.
Vidar nods once and points to a door on the far wall. "Primitive. No running water. There's a basin."
I wrap one of the smaller furs around myself like a blanket, clutching it closed at my chest as I stand. My legs wobble slightly but hold. As I pass Vidar, I notice the temperature around him is distinctly colder than the rest of the cabin. Like walking through an invisible pocket of winter.
The bathroom is indeed primitive—just an enclosed outhouse attached to the cabin, with a basin of water and a pitcher for washing. But it's clean and private, which is all I need right now.
When I return, I find my undergarments laid out on the bed—dry and warm. Vidar stands by the window again, his back to me, offering privacy. I dress quickly in my bra and underwear, thenwrap the fur around me again. The rest of my clothes are still damp.
"You can turn around," I say when I'm decent. As decent as one can be in underwear and a fur, anyway.
He turns, and for just a split second, I think I see a flicker of... something... pass over his features. Interest? It's gone so quickly I can't be sure it was ever there. But my skin warms in response.
"You should eat," he says, moving to the kitchenette again. He takes down a jar of what looks like dried meat and some root vegetables.
"Can I help?" I offer, partly out of politeness, partly to have something to do besides stare at him.
"No. Rest."
His command should irritate me, but exhaustion suddenly crashes over me in a wave. I sink back onto the edge of the bed, watching as he prepares a simple meal with efficient movements. There's something predatory in the way he handles the knife, cutting vegetables with precise, almost ritualistic care.
I find myself cataloging shots I'd take if I had my camera. The play of firelight on his strange antlers. The contrast of his pale hands against the dark wooden table. The way he moves through the space like a creature both at home and perpetually alert.
"My camera," I say suddenly, remembering. "Did you find it? It was around my neck when I—"
"Safe." He gestures to a shelf where my Canon sits, apparently undamaged. Relief washes through me—not just for the expensive equipment, but for the photos it contains. Including, if memory serves, one impossible shot of a creature with glowing antlers in a snowstorm.
I'm about to ask if I can check it when Vidar suddenly stiffens. His eyes flick toward the fire, which has grown larger as the wood caught properly. Sweat beads faintly on his brow—the first sign of discomfort he's shown.
"I need air," he says abruptly, moving toward the door with that uncanny grace. He steps outside, closing it firmly behind him. Through the window, I can see the storm still raging—if anything, it seems to intensify as he walks into it, swallowing his form until he disappears completely.
Alone, I test my legs again and find them stronger. I move quickly to retrieve my camera, turning it on with nervous fingers. The battery is low but functional. I scroll to the last image and freeze.
There it is. Not a hallucination.
The photo shows a towering figure in the snow, antlers glowing blue-white against the storm. They're much larger than the delicate crown Vidar wears now, spanning feet rather than inches. And the face beneath them—not quite human, something more like a deer skull, with eyes burning from empty sockets.
A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the cabin's temperature. I quickly turn the camera off and return it to the shelf as I hear the door open again.
Vidar enters with fresh snow dusting his shoulders and hair. His antlers seem smaller now, more controlled, though that must be a trick of the light. The temperature in the cabin drops noticeably upon his return, as if he brings winter in with him.
"Better?" I ask, watching as the flush recedes from his face.
His eyes narrow slightly, surprised by my observation. "Yes."
I gesture to the crackling fire. "You don't like heat."
"No." He studies me with new intensity. "You're... observant."
We stand in tense silence, the fire crackling between us—him by the door, me beside the bed. I should be afraid. I am afraid. But mixed with that fear is a contradictory, impossible attraction that makes no sense given my situation.
He breaks the tension by returning to the kitchenette. "Food is ready."
As he passes by me toward the table, our arms almost brush. I step back instinctively, but not before I feel the distinct cold that surrounds him like an aura. And in that moment, I swear I see frost patterns bloom briefly on his skin where we nearly touched.
